Through the Loopholes of Retreat
by DannieRaRa
Summary: The sternness of Darcy's expression is often due to what swirls around in his large head. These vignettes are a recounting of some of those thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

As they walk into the room, which only moments ago was alive with music and dancing, and laughter goes cold, silent. All eyes have turned from each other to his party. The smiles of adoration and ease have turned to curious looks, inquisitive assessments, suspicion, perhaps even jealousy. _Lud!_ He hates these things.

He can hear the blood pounding in his head. Is it a headache? The light meal pushed upon him by Ms. Bingley begins to churn in his stomach. Perhaps he should have taken her bait and stayed at Netherfield. His service to his friend needn't include being miserable for an entire evening. While Charles seeks to establish himself in the neighborhood, Darcy felt it almost unnecessary that he, master of the universe, er, Pemberley, need be party to the assembly. He braces himself for the saccharine greeting proffered by what passes for gentry here. _Sir William Lucas looks ridiculous, doesn't he know that?_ Clearly not, for even in his attempt to be understated and dignified, he comes off as solicitous to a fault.

Concentrate on Charles, he reminds himself.

Ever the charmer, Charles smiles graciously, thanks his host, and accepts his fate as the shiny object on display for the crowd. Charles does, in fact, shine in this environment. His sparkling smile stands in bright relief to the rest of the Netherfield party. Darcy can only imagine his own expression. Ms. Bingley looks pinched, Mrs. Hurst bored, and Hurst… Well Hurst frankly looks hungry. Darcy wonders at the wisdom of Charles bringing this group of people to a public assembly where they clearly do not wish to be.

No matter, the crowd seems to have lost interest during his musings. Or perhaps not. Though quiet, there is a low rumble of whispers, giggles. The dull roar starts to build as they make their way through the crowd. Charles smiles, Ms. Bingley nods, Darcy and the Hursts do something entirely non-committal.

The walk is slow, painfully so. People are now standing on their tiptoes to gawk. How many so-called prominent families must we be introduced to? The question comes to Darcy's mind like a whisper, much like those he can now clearly hear from the crowd. He tries to ignore them, not hear how the words are being strung together. Just when he thinks he has succeeded, the words become clearer, like rain falling. Drop… _ten thousand_ …drop… _Derbyshire_ …drop… _earl_ …drop… _single_. The drops become mumbled torrents, a constant reminder of his importance in the world.

The headache has made itself comfortable now. It has settled in for the night, let him know that it will be with him for the remainder of the evening and probably through the next day. _Wonderful_ , he thinks to himself. Nauseated, he continues with his slight nods, his mouth tightly closed to prevent casting his accounts.

The sea of faces start to blend, adding to the nausea. _Wonderful_ , he thinks again. Biting his tongue slightly, he closes his eyes for a moment or two. The music is restarting. At least the spectacle of their entrance has quieted somewhat. He opens his eyes. Before him is a woman to whom he is being introduced. Not really attending to her, he takes a seat.

Charles is off dancing at first opportunity. The Hursts decide to join as well. A tall gentlemen has taken Caroline to the floor. _Ah, at least it saves me from doing so, for now._ The woman to whom he has been introduced is talking. Not making out what she is saying, his mind moves into his own thoughts. Sitting is better than walking through a crowd of onlookers, silence is better than filling the air with nonsense. Hearing his name, he realizes his closest sitting companion, _Mrs. Short?_ , he thinks, is still talking, but she is directing her questions towards him. " _No"_ , " _yes"_ , " _no", "yes", "correct"_. He answers her questions, but it seems a barrage. _Does this woman not ever shut up?_ Finally, she does. His thoughts turn dark, to him. The snake. After a half hour, he notices Charles dance with an exceptionally beautiful girl. She has a lovely smile. _Lud! Here we go again_.

He seeks to wade through the crowd unnoticed, even by Charles, but he is caught. _Demmit! He will be all over me to dance now._ The argument he knew they would have went poorly. _Why can't Charles just leave me be? What is wrong with leaving well enough alone?_ The building pressure from Charles resulting in his outburst:

 _"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."_

Damned Charles. A headache, a stomachache, dark thoughts about the snake, and an outburst. What a wonderful night at the assembly. One more negative stimulus and Darcy thinks he will be well on his way to Bedlam.

He thinks that perhaps some air might do him good stead. He makes his way to the outdoors. The cool air is better on his face. His grimace relaxes, and he feels well enough to return. Time to do his duty. He asks Miss Bingley to dance. She is a bit too delighted for his taste. As always, her remarks are either pointedly favorable towards him, or nastily unfavorable towards others. He is unsure if he can put up with another half hour of this. There it goes again-that undercurrent of giggles and whispers. People are silly. After escorting Miss Bingley back to her brother-in-law, he dances with Mrs. Hurst. At least she is not fawning. His relaxation is almost complete. Then he hears it, a throaty laugh that is clarion, full bodied, genuine. His eyes search for the originator. Charles' angel's sister. Who'd have thought that slip of a girl could make such a sound? Mrs. Hurst has troubled him little with conversation, but he knows he is being inattentive. "I'm sorry, what did you say madam?" He says it in a hurry, in an effort to recover. Mrs. Hurst is polite enough to forgive his inattentiveness, but she is not fooled.

The rest of the evening is spent hearing that infernal buzzing of giggles and whispers, interspersed with that girl's laughter-sweet and maddening torture that it is. The night ends with Hurst passing out in coach ride back to Netherfield. Let us hope we needn't recap the evening upon return. Why relive something so unpleasant?

Despite the respite from his hostess' company, as he makes his way to his quarters, his thoughts return to and replay in a loop, high night, low dawn. His man gives him an odd look, as if he knows something. Why does that little slip laugh like that? Why do I care? _Wonderful._


	2. Chapter 2

Very early the next morning, Darcy awakened, or, at least it should be said, Darcy arose from his bed. The two are very different. To awaken would mean that had achieved some meaningful semblance of sleep, peace. He had not. The unsatisfactory nature of the prior evening spent amongst those of little beauty and no fashion, combined with a general tendency to ponder, being among the chief culprits of his unrest. Add to it those damned eyes he could not expel from his thoughts and the ghastliness of the people, and he had suffered a difficult night.

 _No matter_ , he thought. He would allow his batman to dress him properly. _I really do have to stop thinking of him as such._ Just because he was in service to the crown as a soldier and personal attendant to the higher ups of the British military, does not give him, Darcy, the right to continue to think of him as such. _He is currently my valet, his service to the crown is now immaterial_ , Darcy thought. He stood there for a few moments, pondering the heavy load of responsibility each servant carries. Shortly, his mind wandered to Pemberley and his own many responsibilities to each of the souls there employed. Darcy sighed and decided a ride would help clear his mind. In a thrice, he was prepared to go out, dressed and ready to enjoy the fields and the country, the air and the peace.

He rode vigorously, observing his surroundings carefully. He slowed in the woods, as the going became a bit treacherous due to the rains earlier in the week. He heard humming, a beautiful, full-throated lilting sound. It seemed to permeate the air, coming as if from heaven. He lifted his head and looked about; the hum stopped suddenly. As if displeased with his notice, the song from heaven ceased in the throat of its singer. He looked around him, his head moving quickly from left and right, front to back. He even dismounted and looked around for the source. _No more beauty in the ears of this man_ , he thought bitterly. His features darkened and the thought depressed him. _Only I can prevent the angels from singing. Cursed indeed. Why can I not be happy?_ He heard a rustling in the trees above him. Expecting to find a bird, instead, he saw a foot, a dainty one at that. He flushed with embarrassment at the impropriety of seeing something not meant for his eyes and quickly remounted his horse, galloping as quickly as his horse would take him back to Netherfield.

Later that day, still wrestling with the mystery of the foot, he heard the same angelic tones, or did he imagine them? The eldest Miss Bennets were completing their visit to Ms. Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Promises of a return visit were made in short order, and Caroline directed the servants to fetch the Bennet sisters' parasols and gloves, while Mrs. Hurst quickly made her exit. The Bennet sisters smiled and shared a brief laugh at a remembrance of a childhood memory formed in Netherfield. They were evidently familiar with the house. Their sisterly affection was obvious. Darcy observed the two from the landing above and suddenly grew jealous. A close friendship with true affection, he had, yes. He would never be as close to anyone as he had been with his cousin during his childhood. Fitzwilliam was now a Colonel and was kept quite busy by the annoyance across the Channel. He refused to think of the source of his largest disappointment with regard to _philia_. Dem! It had been days since I had to think about that creature—him. He decided he would write to Georgiana and check on her progress. Lost in his thoughts about his sister, Darcy stood for what seemed like minutes. Then, there it was. _The voice he heard in the woods earlier!_ "Forgive me, Jane," declared Elizabeth Bennet. "Oh Lizzy, you know how much your voice soothes me so. Think nothing of it," Ms. Bennett replied. Their discussion died in their throats with the return of Ms. Bingley and the servant carrying their accessories.

Ms. Bingley once again promised to return their call, which she and Mrs. Hurst accomplished the next day. Caroline's complaints about the nature of the rest of the Bennet household were manifold. While the refreshments were of the highest quality and the tea exceptional, Mrs. Bennet was altogether revolting, mercenary, and crass. The youngest two Bennets were probably the silliest creatures Ms. Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had ever encountered, which both noted was saying something given their familiarity with daughters of the _Haute Ton_. The middle sister, Mary, was apparently all that is earnest, officious, and judgmental, with little patience for silliness, but with such a pompous sense of self-importance-it was a terrible thing to behold, _apparently_.

Their critical assessments of Bennet estate was a mixture of awe and jealousy. They knew the family had been landed gentry for many generations. The household appeared well-managed and the mother, for all of her vulgarity, had an active regime for the girls to fulfill duties to the estate. Apparently, the youngest, Lydia, had complained bitterly that she neither wanted nor needed to learn the same things about managing the estate as her older sisters had, as she declared she would be the wife of an officer or a captain (or some such other...) and would be otherwise too occupied having adventures around the world to worry about something "so pedestrian as an estate." Caroline's obvious dissatisfaction with the almost dismissive and spoiled nature of Ms. Lydia's comments spoke to the level of their (Ms. Bingley's and Mrs. Hurst's) understanding of their place below the Bennets in society. Apparently, as the story goes, Lydia was reacting to the obvious pride Mrs. Bennet had expressed in Ms. Bennet and Ms. Elizabeth's efforts in the house, with the tenants, and in the community. Ms. Mary was following assiduously in her older sisters' footsteps and doing quite well. Unused to Ms. Eliza's praises being sung by their mother, Ms. Lydia made her silly outburst. By Caroline's accounting, Ms. Elizabeth's praises were sung by all of her sisters, Lydia included(though somewhat begrudgingly). In Ms. Bingley's eyes, Ms. Elizabeth was portrayed as little more than a steward, with her ideas about improvements, accounting, and management; her care with all manner of correspondence and letters of business. Why would Ms. Eliza continue and deepen such unladylike pursuits? Ms. Eliza was well on her way to becoming a spinster. _Oh the irony_ , Darcy thought to himself. Ms. Bingley was in high dudgeon that these girls of little fortune had the nerve to be born to estate life. No aspiration was required. This vexed her and revealed a chink in her well-worn armor of hauteur and self-importance.

However, Caroline's sense of self was not punctured for long, as she once again decided her dowry and superior education more than outweighed the established aristocratic background of the 'lowly Bennets' and thus she felt decidedly better. Mr. Hurst's snicker at Caroline's musings and his _sotto voce_ disagreement with Caroline's self-assessment caught Darcy's ear. Darcy spent many an evening thus engaged. Listening to an unceasing list of reasons why she, Caroline Bingley was better than...( _insert visiting/visited neighbor here_ ). Caroline waxed poetic as to why she is the better of each and every single member of the Meryton environs' landed gentry. Little did she know that her attempts to disparage only served to show her true insecurity about being the daughter of a tradesman.

A respite from Ms. Bingley's mean-spirited comparisons came in the form of an invitation, or so Darcy thought. The group was invited to spend the evening at the home of the Lucas'. Caroline's satirical eye got the better of her as she proposed to her sister a bit of a game to induce the locals into saying the most ridiculous things about themselves. The one who collects the best examples would need to recount them to the group, in French. Caroline even developed a name for the game: _"Pourquoi_ le _mépris?Un exemple suit!"_ Darcy was aghast that Ms. Bingley decided to use her French and her London girls' school education to make sport of others, but he said nothing. He only cataloged the behavior as among the things he despised about the ton and its occupants. Charles Bingley, upon hearing the Caroline/Louisa plans, gave a stern warning about being respectful of the kindly meant hospitality being proffered. He put his sisters on their guard that any inappropriate behavior would leave him most displeased. His sisters continued to titter throughout the day, largely ignoring their brother's protests. _Poor Charles._ To have such sisters.

This night would be interesting indeed. During the ride over to Lucas Lodge, Darcy recalled with some discomfort, his comments about the Bennets. Had his harsh words about the beauty of second daughter, and the wit of the mother inspired Ms. Bingley's game of amusement? At that moment, Darcy felt shabby. He did not linger on the feeling for very long. He resolved to simply observe the proceedings of the evening, reserving his judgments for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

_Charlotte Lucas is the devil!_

Of this Darcy was certain. He had come to this conclusion over the course of their brief encounters. This evening proved no exception. In fact, it only confirmed his suspicions. What other explanation could be had? She did knowingly and deliberately thrust Miss Elizabeth Bennet into a situation that would surely capture his notice. He was certain of Charlotte Lucas' deceit. Devil woman. Deep in his thoughts, Darcy recounts the Lucas devil's crimes. _She must have known of my mortifying thoughts about those eyes and that figure and that easy playfulness of manner._ Charlotte Lucas knows it and she commenced to torture me. First, she caught his eye as she and Miss Elizabeth were speaking. She seemed to provoke the lithe little minx to engage him in conversation. There he was, content to walk about the room and observe Miss Elizabeth from an easy distance, beneath her notice. And then Miss Lucas catches him in her eyes. So concerned was he that Elizabeth Bennet was speaking to him, he muttered a surely unsatisfactory response to her borderline impertinent remark about teasing another man. _Does Forster harbor feelings for Miss Elizabeth? Is such a gathering a way of announcing his intentions? Is Miss Elizabeth amenable to such a scheme?_ These thoughts and other swirled in his head for a matter of seconds. Thus he completely missed that which served as the second confirmation of the Charlotte Lucas devilry—inducing Miss Elizabeth to perform. As he watched her sing, swelling her song with her breath, in her playful manner, eyes twinkling with amusement, he was lost in her. He heard the sounds that she emitted and was not displeased. In fact, he would count himself as an admirer of her performance, though it was not to the standard of those he had heard in the parlors of the _ton_. The ease with which she delighted the audience gave him pause. It annoyed him that Miss Elizabeth had so easily slipped in under his notice and taken something from him. He knew not what, but he wanted it back. He remembered with a satirical fondness his initial assessment of her _beauty_ , his search for imperfections during their subsequent encounters, his unkind recitation of her faults to his friends, and his hopeless surrender to his admiration of her physical quirks. Perhaps all of this reflection on the beauty of one person is his mind's way of telling him that he wants for business to dispense.

 _There_ , he thought, he had resolved it. He must apply himself more assiduously to helping his friend. After all, that was the reason for his affirmative answer to help Bingley. It most certainly was not the amusement provided by his sisters. _Vapid creatures._ He observed them briefly, tittering in the corner, whispering to one another; most likely about the sub-par company, no doubt. They are not wrong. The lack of pleasant company at present served to distract him from the other faults to be found in town. He is here now in the country. It is best to forget London, the last time he was there. Certainly, to forget him. _Demmit! He has stolen my pleasure again, simply by his presence in my thoughts._ Thus his thoughts went until the opportunity for Miss Lucas to perform her final bit of devilry. Miss Elizabeth' willingness (though he could not really call it such given her multiple attempts to refuse) to perform invited her pompous younger sister to do so as well. The titters from the Bingley/Hurst corner increased. The eye rolls from the younger Bennets became more pronounced, the level of discomfort heightened. And then suddenly, the air became lighter, undoubtedly helped by Miss Mary's play of Scotch and Irish songs.

Darcy presently began to imagine Miss Elizabeth taking part in the frivolity, with him. He imagined her sparkling eyes, her smile directed at him. His reverie was broken by Sir William Lucas, surely the partner to his daughter's evil, for what he did next did more than all of Miss Lucas' evil schemes up to that point. Sir William pushed Miss Elizabeth on him, extolling her virtues of beauty, grace on the dance floor. The hand held by Sir William must have been wet with worried perspiration. Their hands were inching closer, his with hers, guided by the sorcerer himself. His heart thudded in his chest and then it tightened. His cravat felt as if it were choking him. Then came a euphoria of sorts. She smiled, eyebrow arched, as she flatly refused to dance with him. He wondered if the smile was for herself or for him. The turn of her heel confirmed it was for herself—a show of politeness to her neighbor, to soften the blow of her refusal. She seemed to be more apologetic to Sir Lucas than she was to him. _He was the one perspiring like a schoolboy asking his first lady to dance. He was the one choking on a cravat that was too tight! He was the one suffering what was sure to be an apoplexy!_ Yet, somehow, some way, however, it was Sir William Lucas who received Miss Elizabeth's heartfelt smile of non-concordance!

 _Wicked imp._

As she walked away, he stared for a time more than was polite. The almost imperceptible sway of her hips was hypnotic. How could such a tiny creature betray such liveliness of movement? His thoughts veered towards to the mortifying. To prevent Sir William's discovery of his physical reaction to Miss Elizabeth's form, he bowed abruptly and made his way over toward an outward facing window to cool his thoughts, to relax his tensed gut, to readjust his mental faculties from its Elizabeth-induced gaze.

 _You are not a 15-year-old schoolboy, you brute! You are a gentleman._

He looked away from the crowd, stared absently into imaginary space, willing his body to calmness it did not, at that moment, possess. Finally able to face the room, he watches with barely concealed disdain as the revelers line up. He contemplated for a few moments, the feeling of being so free and innocent. It was almost libertine, the feeling of disconnectedness—devil-may-care non-concern. From the corner of his eye, he saw smaller Lucases running about. He heard Miss Lydia's loud squeal of delight. _There is a child that could use some manners._

With a stupid grin on his face, he fails to notice the quietude of the Bingley/Hurst corner. Caroline Bingley has made her way over to him, sidled up next to him, exuding hauteur and too much perfume, sporting disdain and ridiculous headdress. _She is exhausting, that woman._ He promptly puts on his Caroline Bingley mask and endures her snide remarks, her sly smiles. When she ventures a guess as to his thoughts, he surprises her and himself by being truthful about them.

 _Damn you Charlotte Lucas! This is your entire fault, my current state!_

Miss Bingley's surprise at his confession is both mocking and self-satisfied, as if he had handed her some secret insight into his soul that she will barter away to another bidder, bit by torturous bit. She was readying her talon-tongued barbs for his benefit. _The harpy._ He was uncertain how long he would be expected to endure it. She turns on her heel and Darcy is unmoved, relieved even when she leaves, sniggering as she makes her way back to her empty-minded sister. _How is it that one woman of his acquaintance tortures him by her distance and another tortures him by her proximity?_

He settled a bit. His breathing regularized. His eyes undilated. He felt normal. Then, she laughed and his body betrayed him. AGAIN!

 _Lud! I must return to Netherfield before I embarrass myself._

With that thought came the beginnings of a headache.


	4. Chapter 4

"To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come."

 _That Dane had the right of it._ Darcy started to wonder if a person could actually die from lack of sleep. He felt the counterpane. He looked up at the drapings of the bedstead. Perhaps they could fall, wrap around him and crush him until he drifted off into actual sleep. Instead, they only form another part of what swirls in his head from lack of sleep. The source of his unrest was, of course, his own mouth. Well, at least, what his own mouth utters in response to the presence of to the wicked imp Elizabeth Bennet. She runs around like Puck with those eyes, those lips, those hips, that voice raised in song. Presently, he felt chuckleheaded. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, but the feeling refused to dissipate. Instead, it settled in him, rested there, first behind his eyes, then in his sighs.

 _Lud! Deliver me._

It was bad enough that after his admission to his feelings about Miss Elizabeth in the devil's parlor, Caroline Bingley had taken to torturing him with witty little quips about his future happiness with the lady with the fine eyes. She would point out little things that would be part of their wedded bliss. Her wit flowed long. Again, he felt it in his gut, that shabbiness that become so familiar to him—he goaded Caroline Bingley with his true admission because she was irritating, because he was tired, because he wanted her out of his line of sight, so he could continue to admire Miss Elizabeth's form in peace. He continued to goad her by not ceasing her quips with a well-spoken locution. He hoped that her settling into the idea of Elizabeth, and not Caroline Bingley herself being his, in his life, in his home, in his… He had to stop these thoughts. If Caroline Bingley could only see that he had nary an interest in her person, she would desist. He knew in his heart of hearts, she would never acknowledge his subtle, polite coolness toward her. _Wait, when did I start thinking of Miss Elizabeth by her Christian name only._

To think what would have happened to his reputation as a gentlemen should Miss Bingley or Miss Elizabeth have seen the evidence of his admiration of Miss Elizabeth's cheeks, reddened with exercise, eyes, glowing with exertion as she came to care for her sister. _Tender mercies, indeed!_ Perhaps the torture of this experience will make him more pious. He would bow to God to make it stop.

In a continuous loop, he replays the interactions of the prior day. Her arrival, her disappearance, the talk and tittering of the Bingley/Hurst harpies, her reappearance, her disappearance, the venom and barbs of the Bingley/Hurst harpies, his comments about the prospects for marriage for ladies such as Miss Bennett and Miss Elizabeth, her reappearance, their discussion about accomplishments in women, her disappearance, the venomous jealousy of Miss Bingley's barbs. That replay, again and again, is so torturous, he almost longs for the prior unrest inspired by the wicked imp. At least those thoughts, in the comfort of his room, however temporary, provided some relief, even if followed by horrible, debilitating guilt. _Those are not the thoughts of a gentleman!_ This torture is far, far worse. The nearness, yet distance; the interaction, yet substance-less conversation. His efforts to demonstrate to Miss Bingley that she is not what he considers to be an ideal woman and that Miss Elizabeth is such. Miss Elizabeth's stubborn refusal to understand him. It was all too much. Again, these thoughts swirled in a confusing miasma of missed cues, unspoken declarations, mixed with feelings of guilt, lust, amusement, and more guilt.

Darcy turned over onto his stomach, punched his pillow once, then again, and then repeated the action. He felt energized all of a sudden. He did Constantine press ups and then Hindustani push ups until his arms burned and his back hurt. At last, he was tired. Exhausted, he fell asleep only to be awakened by what seemed to be an otherworldly sound. _Her voice_ lifted in song, whispering to her sister. How can he hear that? "Good morning, sir," said his valet. It was morning again, and he had imagined that voice.

 _You have robbed me of my heart, and you have robbed me of my sleep. You will not rob me of my mind._ With that thought and his remembrance of the need for piety, Darcy resolutely began his day.


	5. Chapter 5

"What's wrong with poetry?," Darcy thought to himself, remembering the rather thorough takedown by Miss Elizabeth of its efficacy for expressing love. She had a rather peculiar manner of viewing its use. It, like everything related to her, intrigued and discomfited him. He was left to contemplate her words in silence as her mother and sisters swished from the room and Miss Elizabeth made a rather hasty retreat to the quarters of the invalid. The Bingley-Hurst harpies were doing their level best to denigrate every single moment of the interaction with the vulgar mother and her shockingly self-important (Miss Lydia), undoubtedly empty-headed (Miss Kitty) daughters. Caroline Bingley's wit, once turned to the Bennets, lasted some time indeed. Darcy spent his time barely attending to their conversation but instead thinking of the most appropriate pieces of poetry with which he might use in a verbal duel with Miss Elizabeth. He resolved to do better.

 _Ugh, what a terrible day that was._ It was most definitely one that Darcy did not care to repeat. After that morning with Mrs. Bennet, Darcy believed it could only get better. It did not. The evening brought newer, fresher hells for him to endure. Between the simpering Bingley harpy, fawning over his every action, his irascible responses to her pursuit, her daftness to his own incivility, and the infernal, eternal, smirk of amusement on the lips of Elizabeth. (There I go again, thinking of her wit and her lips), the relaxing evening was unbearable. Add to it, Bingley's ill-advised enthusiasm for EVERYTHING. _Lud! Deliver me!_ The archness of Elizabeth's dispute with him over Bingley's rapidity of action and lack of conviction was already too much. He thought he had parried a number of her verbal lunges, but with the elocution of each phrase, they would end in a series of verbal beats. While she disengaged, he beat a hasty retreat until the next time he decided to open his mouth and insert his foot firmly into it. _Bedlam, I am not coming for you, you will come to me!_

Worse still, she once again was able to resist his charms and dance with him. What is she about? No one, absolutely no one resists me. Darcy thought on this a minute and came to the conclusion that he rarely, if ever, engaged a dance partner without copious amounts of coaxing from others or without obligations of politeness. His attempt to engage Elizabeth in reel was his first attempt since he became master of Pemberley. How odd that this country slip of a girl batted back his attempt with archness and perspicacity, turning his attempt at gallantry into purposeful and provocative affront to her very own sensibilities. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? Bingley harpy's astute surmise of his feelings was all the more vexing, as she spent more and more of her time teasing him about his fascination. Her suggestions for his domestic felicity with such a lowly bred termagant, from the mention of Mrs. Bennet's ill-advised, well, everything, to the distasteful manners of the lawyer's wife, to the hedonistic hoydens that were the two youngest Bennets, were well-placed enough to check his regard.

He owned that the danger of her presence at Netherfield would be lessened should she leave, mercifully. Then, the incidents occurred and he was left again, tumbling down into a pit of inappropriate desire, self pitying lack of sleep, and increasing resentment. The irony was not lost on him that two of the three were fully due to the hand of the Bingley harpy. He chuckled to himself as remembered the first. His pleasure at the sight of the shape of Elizabeth's form, gleaned from the sun shining through her dress, made itself known in the most upright and painful way. It was a close thing that just as he thought he might need to break away to make an adjustment, the Bingley-Hurst harpies made their presence more difficult to ignore and he was soon deflated. A close thing, that. For how could he have explained that inconveniently popping up while having a married woman one arm and a single, tirelessly-working-to-become-Mrs. Darcy-and-thankfully-not succeeding-spinster on the other arm.

The second was more dangerous, more disquieting. Not only had his pleasure popped up when he admired her form as she walked with the Bingley harpy around the room. The lighting, the laughter in her eyes, all bringing her presence into painful relief. _Hah! Painful relief indeed_ ; luckily he had remained seated. The argument that ensued between them was as exhilarating as it was disheartening. She seemed determined to provoke him, making words spill forth from his mouth that he would never dream of saying, in in… well never! How did she manage that bit of bewitchment? Clearly she had learned at the feet of her sorcery neighbors.

The third was torture, pure and simple. He would have rather a drawing and quartering that the half hour spent alone, in her presence in the library. Immediately recognizing her smell as she glided into the room, chose a book, and set to read it, every nerve, and apparently, a fair amount of blood, was painfully aware of her presence near her. She studiously avoided his gaze, not looking up from her book once. The battle between libido and reason played out during that half hour.

While he said nothing, he felt he had lost his battle within himself to avoid looking in her direction. His imprinting of the shape of her mouth, the pout of her lips as she found amusement in her book, the slope of her shoulders, the unruly riotous curls that escaped their pins as she immersed herself more deeply in the text, all exhausted him. Combined with his inability to move due to yet another inconvenient protrusion, he miserably stayed put, trying to adjust himself, subtly by crossing and uncrossing his legs. God must have had mercy on him, to deliver her exit to him. But it was upon her imminent departure that she appeared most tempting. _Lud! Am I now a blaspheme?_ Comparing the three incidents in his mind to the temptation of Christ. His thoughts were distinctly ungodly. His sleep that night was tortured, but it came easier than the others during her stay.

Upon reflection, Darcy was better able to assess Elizabeth's actions. The physical removal of her presence had calmed his spirit and quieted his body. The incidents over the course of days spent in Elizabeth's presence at Netherfield brought to mind A Midsummer Night's Dream: "Though she be but little, she is fierce." The Bard had the right of it.


	6. Chapter 6

Tears were in his eyes. He felt powerless, angry, shocked, murderous. He wanted to kill and one has to believe it was for more than just selfish reasons, more than just a spoke in his monthly cycle of remembering the near disaster. The turmoil in his mind after that fateful ride into Meryton had unsettled him greatly. _He_ had the audacity to show his presence here of all places. His smirk— _Lud I would dearly love to remove that smarmy look with my ring. His face could be populated with small imprints of the Darcy crest_ , he thought to himself as he worried the ring on his finger, having just finished letters to his cousin, his sister, and his steward. He expressed his outrage to his cousin, his worries after her health to his sister, and his concern with the situation of the estate to his steward. He had his man immediately dispatch the letters to ease his mind somewhat, but he was still troubled. Seeing Wickham in Meryton was unsettling. Worse still, he seems to have ingratiated himself with Elizabeth.

 _What on God's green earth is he doing here? How long has he been here?_ _Does she fancy him? How could she play me so false? Doesn't she know that she owns my soul?_

She has been goading me with knowing looks and pert remarks for (what seemed to be) an interminable amount of time. He chuckled to himself at the ridiculous and dramatic turn his thoughts took.

 _The concerned look on her face should have been for me, not that wretched non-being_. _I shall think of them no more. She has no hold on me. She has no control over my actions._

Minutes later, he sunk into an agonizing spiral of want and doubt. The cool air had warmed her cheeks, he remembered. Her hair, caught in her bonnet, was struggling to escape its confines. Her spencer brought out the green and amber flecks in her dark eyes. She looked beautiful. He imagined walking through Lambton with her on his arm, observing the town and villagers, smiling up at him in delight as they walked in silence. His heart swelled to see the smile on her lips. The residents of Lambton would be captivated by her open heart and her beauty. Her smile would light the dark winter better than any thermolamp, or candles in windows, or the sun.

 _Did I just liken her to the Sun?_ _Copernicus would groan._ _Now I am a blaspheme and a heretic._

Indulging a bit longer in his fantasy, they would stop at the bookseller's so that she might peruse volumes that could catch her fancy. He would buy whatever she wanted. She would have had long enough to develop improvements to the very impressive book collection already present at Pemberley. They would return home, their eyes brightened by exercise and good cheer. Georgiana would greet them as they arrived and the three would share companionable mirth near the fire, drinking tea and discussing Lizzy's impressions of the village. They would laugh and fill the halls with joy. Georgiana will blossom under Lizzy's kind tutelage. He was sure of it. _Would she be kind to Georgiana, would she censure her for her childlike trust in an old family friend whose treachery knew no bounds? Or would she scorn her? No she would love Georgiana as her own sister, solicitous of her feelings, forgiving of the childhood mistake that could have spelled her ruin._

A knock at the door by his man snapped him out of his fantasy. He was to dress for dinner.

A mere few hours later, Darcy was exhausted, angry, and weary as he looked blankly at his Vacheron fob, slipping it back into his vest pocket. The tension with Wickham made him more contemplative than normal during dinner, and thus more withdrawn. During the separation of the sexes—a conceit among such a small party of friends—he had met with Bingley in his study while his friend wrote a list on his escritoire. He did not seem willing to share what he was writing, and Darcy was disinclined to ask. Darcy was mired in his own troubles. He had a worried look about him. He was more pensive than Darcy had ever seen him. He knew his friend well and he knew he was wrestling with something. He waited to hear Charles discuss it with him, but he did not. Charles looked at objects randomly while his eyes remained fixed up them for moments at a time.

"What is it Charles?"

"Not a thing, Darce. I am perfectly well."

Darcy doubted it.

"Why do you think you reacted to the Bennet ladies' company as you did?"

"With them was an old devilry and nemesis George Wickham. Speaking of Wickham, I wanted to suggest that he not be present at your ball next week."

"You mean the short fat man attempting to draw Miss Elizabeth's attention? It cannot be."

"The tall one with the long coat. You could not have missed his self-satisfied smirk."

"Of course, Darcy."

Shortly thereafter, they had returned to his sisters. Hurst, while inattentive to Charles and Darcy's discussions during the separation of the sexes, was alert for cards and drinking. The constant din of the Charles' sisters, especially Caroline, begging his assistance annoyed him even more. He did not participate. Hurst voiced his displeasure at possibly being matched against his wife and his sister, with Darcy helping them. Charles, after having been whispered to by one of the servants, approached Darcy.

"I am sorry old man, when I had the invitation to the office class of the _ militia wintering in Meryton, I had no idea Wickham was among them. He is naturally included in the invitation."

"Think nothing of it."

Darcy excused himself from the activities, claiming a headache. He spoke with his man to ensure his chambers were locked, went to bed, and fell into slumber quickly.

 _His lips touched the small mole on left side of the back of her neck, as she slumbered. She sighed contentedly but did not stir. Carefully he reached over her slim shoulder to loosen the small buttons of her sleeping gown-decorations really. He had already undone the back as it hung loose on one side. He touched his tongue to his thumb and forefinger and slowly encircled his object. Though he could not see it, he could feel it puckering at the attention and the cool air. She must have been tired from their walk for she continued to sleep soundly. He then moved her carefully onto her back to remove her other arm from the shift. He chuckled at his playfulness. What a sight he was, hovering over his beautiful wife as she slept, coaxing her body's reactions as she remained firmly in the arms of Morpheus. Being so light, it was nothing to lift her to remove it completely so that she was then completely bare to him. He admired her form as the firelight showed it to him, hinting at her curves, her peaks and valleys. Her sheer loveliness, her diminutive, yet slightly curved slimness was beyond what he had imagined of her. As he sighed in admiration, the bed dipped under his weight. Her eyes opened briefly, but quickly closed again as her jaw slackened. She could sleep through a fire!, he worried. He had begun to cover her as he moved the counterpane over her and moved his face towards the object of his attention. Delicately, he tasted her flesh, dipping his tongue into his most favorite place in the entire world. She tasted sweet and cinnamony, with a hint of musk. So intent was he on his task that he did not perceive her definite awakening. His stomach tightened from want and anticipation._

" _Hello, Mr. Darcy"_

 _Hello darling_

" _What are you..." Before she could finish the question, he was kissing her mouth passionately, devouring her lip. His heightened state of interest in her person brought him up to his knees. His left arm had scooped her up with him, lifting the back her knees and resting each of her slim ankles at his ears. His right hand held her arms in a somewhat awkward position. With his strength and the differences in their weight combined with her small size, he effortlessly eased her onto him. She struggled as her eyes widened, her mouth formed a silent scream. In an instant, at this angle and with her attempts to free her legs, he was lost. He looked down and instantly emptied himself inside her at the sight of viewing their connection. The tightness had uncoiled in his lower abdomen and he was at ease, in a haze of sorts. She was no longer silent but screaming in earnest then, yelling and sobbing. He was finished, thus her point was moot. The anger in her eyes teased him into an extremely forced surge deeper. One of her finally free hands hit his cheek with such force, it shocked him out himself and he withdrew from her. For such a little person…_ Darcy awoke to his darkened chamber. He could feel the warmth of the fire, though the curtains to his bedframe were still drawn.

He looked down and choked on his own scream of frustration, powerlessness, and disgust with himself. Another night, another mess. He thought with her gone from under the same roof, his inappropriate thoughts would disappear. He had been doing everything right—praying daily, diligently helping Bingley, cordially batting away the attentions of his harpystess, reading, riding his horse to the point of exhaustion, shooting. He even took to running as he had when he was a child, in order to induce exhaustion. Seemingly, based on the evidence before him, these activities were for naught. He winced as he removed himself from his bed. He walked onto his balcony from his sitting room allowing the cool air to calm him. He looked down again and saw his body was no closer to calm than the dream had allowed. If anything, it was painfully worse and a tear leaked from his eye. As he returned to his chamber, his man had entered, set to get things in order for the day, when he chanced a look at his master. The misery on Darcy's face, the damp bedclothes, and the obvious state of arousal elicited nothing but a business-like, efficient response. He retrieved a warm, wet towel from the dressing room in trice, handed it to Darcy, and noted that water was already being fetched for a bath for him. He went to the bed to remove the bedding, cold and stiff with the leavings of his master. He shook his head in pity and quickly exited the room, leaving Darcy to clean up his person.

Chancing a look down once again, he noted that shame had finally brought his body into the regulation. It was dual-fold. He remembered a slap, but little else. He saw the pity in his man's eyes as he tried to school his features to help Darcy prepare for the day. Darcy called out to his man to have him delay heating the water as he was roll the rock up the hill again by trying a vigorous run of his horse in the countryside to quell himself.

Struggling to remember what had occurred in this nightmare, he saw the shock in her eyes, but little else. The rest of interlude would remain a mystery, so he thought. The mess, unheard of even during the period in his youth when he was discovering his own body's abilities, was considerable. There must have been very powerful feelings tied to those activities.

This humiliation and disgust with himself was all the wicked imp's fault, he decided. The stress of Wickham's presence, the constant unwanted attention from Bingley's sister, had distressed him to the point of total wanton abandon in his dream. He must have imagined unheard of things for their bodies together to find his person and bedding in such a condition. At least the arousal was gone. He sighed to himself as he was in his saddle, riding as hard as he could, jumping fences and hedges, reaching speeds he had not tested in a long time. He returned to Netherfield hot, despite the dropped temperature, and somewhat calmer. No one seemed to be stirring in the house when he was handing the reins to the groom as he went to the stables. Workers were milling about. A strong, slim man with his back to Darcy was on his knees struggling with one of the collies. He wrested the dog's prize from the playful animals' jowls—a bone. The sight made Darcy chuckle.

Realization came over him as he now remembered the-oh-so-important-and-previously-forgotten portion of his dream. The images flooded his mind as he quickly rushed up the back stairs to his room. He shut his door firmly and wept. He remembered all of his dream now— _her mole, her slim form, her taste, her anger, her scream, her slap_.

His disappointment in himself was complete. He bathed, dressed for breakfast, and went down to find Bingley, again, in a contemplative state. Being wrapped in his own misery, he mentioned that he would return to London and then to Pemberley shortly after Bingley's ball. Bingley nodded mechanically and absently chewed his food. _What was that weighed so heavily on Bingley's mind?_

The large clock chimed and Darcy was brought back to himself. He once again returned his dream/nightmare and looked absently at his own plate. For someone who only yesterday resolved to think of _her_ no more, he was doing an exceptionally poor job of it.


End file.
